


The Year She Sent None

by Phinoa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, D/Hr Advent 2017, F/M, Family Fluff, Forgiveness, HP: EWE, Post-War, Redemption, Romance, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-07 16:05:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12236160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phinoa/pseuds/Phinoa
Summary: Every year following the war, Draco anonymously receives a piece of coal for Christmas – until he doesn’t, and his life changes forever. A story of forgiveness. // RUNNER-UP: Enchanted Awards 2018 for Best Holiday/Christmas Fic





	The Year She Sent None

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the D/Hr Advent fest 2017 – whoever nominated me: thank you! I enjoyed participating immensely. The prompt I was given is "coal".
> 
> Further thanks go out to LightofEvolution, for wonderful feedback, and MalfoysMuggleMrs, for top-notch betaing and further encouragement.
> 
> RunningQuill, I hope I'll manage to cast a smile upon your face.
> 
> Happy Christmas everyone!
> 
> PS: I know, I know, the kids' names ... immensely creative ;)

_**Christmas Day, 2017** _

‘Dad ... why do you always get a piece of coal for Christmas?’

Draco looked at his son; his fingers were already black from examining every side of the very plain piece of coal.

‘Here,’ he said, taking it out of Scorpius’s hands and Levitating it into a wooden box atop the fireplace, before cleaning his son’s fingers with a flick of his wand.

‘So, why do you get these?’ persisted the seven-year-old.

‘Well, son, when someone sends you coal for Christmas, it means you have been naughty.’

Scorpius’s eyes grew wide as saucers.

‘Are you naughty every year, Dad?’

Draco chuckled, ruffling his son’s light tresses.

‘That depends,’ he quipped, though corrected quickly, ‘No, I’m not naughty every year. I used to be, when I was in school. That’s why your mother started sending me coal.’

‘Mum sends them?’ Scorpius pointed at the box.

‘Oh yeah – and I’m glad she does,’ said Draco. ‘It’s how we got together.’

Scorpius’s mouth fell open ever so slightly.

‘Can you tell me?’ he asked. ‘Please?’

‘Of course.’ Draco gave his son a loving smile. ‘It’s my favourite Christmas tale, after all.’

* * *

_**Christmas Day, 2004** _

A piece of coal. Again. Draco eyed the black clump for a moment before opening the wooden box on his mantelpiece and joining it with the others. There were seven in total now – one for each Christmas since the war had ended.

The first one he’d initially thrown away, but retrieved it for some reason. Draco couldn’t still quite pinpoint as to why he kept them to this day. Maybe it was because of the notes – the newest one, number five, was even more cryptic than usual.

_ Have you ever wondered whether I do?  
Because I do. _

That was all – there was nothing else. Do what exactly? Draco sighed heavily as he put the note into the box as well, where no light would touch it for another year – or so he thought.

**x x x**

_**The week before Christmas, 1998** _

Hermione looked at her list of names. They belonged to her former bullies; sorted by importance, defined by the severity and frequency of their bullying. Some of them she had crossed out and put into a different order. The only name which remained uncorrected sat right at the top: Draco Malfoy.

Christmas was a time of healing and forgiveness. Hermione’s eyes darted to the small pile of coal next to her; by sending these people a piece each, she wanted to say the unsaid. Amongst their multitude of other presents opened that year, they would receive at least one which they’d fully earned. And still, paying them attention in the first place was, in her eyes, a peace offering – and her way of coping.

Thus it happened that she sent out coal for the first time.

During breakfast on Christmas Day, she noticed Draco’s fingers were still covered in soot, and Hermione’s porridge became witness to a sufficiently complacent smirk. She hadn’t been able to resist a minor jinx which would make the stains last for 24 hours – the image of Pansy freaking out over uncleanable, blackened hands or Goyle desperately trying to rub it all off surely made for an entertaining morning.

**x x x**

_**Christmas Eve, 1999** _

The following year, fewer people received a piece of coal – unjinxed this time. Hermione had dropped some names off the list; names of those whom she could forgive more easily. Others, like Rita Skeeter, would be given another round. And some, like Draco, had practically earned themselves a lifetime subscription. 

At the Ministry's Christmas function on Boxing Day, she easily spotted his distinct features from afar. He had come with his mother, representing the Malfoy family who were in dire need of redemption – Lucius served his time in Azkaban these days. Luckily for them, the Ministry always needed money. Although Hermione refused to be part of the corrupt system, she was still the Ministry’s poster witch; debatable the question of which was worse. All she needed to do was smile and accept the celebrated title of war heroine with grace.

A good thing she had Ron and Harry by her side.

**x x x**

_**Christmas Eve, 2000** _

Another year down the road, Draco’s name was the only one left. It was the first time Hermione decided to write him a note:

_This piece of coal_  
_sheds filth and dirt, though_  
_‘tis neither found in my blood_  
_nor inside your soul._

Hopefully, he would take her hint the way she intended: a chance to own up to the wrongs he’d committed, as well as embark on a journey of healing. Hermione couldn’t quite say why she felt the need to assuage the boy – now a man – who had tormented her relentlessly. Maybe it was because deep down she knew that he was not the one to blame, to hold the strings.

Or maybe it was because her break-up with Ron made her overly sentimental.

When Hermione once again saw Draco at the Ministry a couple of days later, she found he was looking back. His gaze was quizzical, making Hermione wonder whether he knew she was the anonymous sender. If the length of his stare was any indication, he was suspicious at the very least.

**x x x**

_**The week before Christmas, 2001** _

Diagon Alley was bustling with witches and wizards who were still looking for Christmas presents, Hermione among them. She didn’t have any yet, except one – although technically, it couldn’t be called a gift. It was much more of a reminder.

She opened the door to Quality Quidditch Supplies, in hopes of finding something for Harry, Ginny, and Ron. Despite their break-up the year prior, Hermione couldn’t  _ not  _ send him a Christmas present. He was still one of her best friends, after all – or at least, she hoped he would be again someday.

Just as she reached for the last of the Inflatable Hoops (“Turn anywhere into a Quidditch pitch”), another hand snagged the package away.

‘Excuse me,’ said Hermione hotly, spinning around to see who the brazen shopper was. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

Draco was standing right beside her, mirroring her surprised expression.

‘Um, hello, Granger – did you want this?’ He held up the small box.

‘I was reaching for it, wasn’t I?’ She sounded more accusatory than was her intention. For some reason, his presence flustered her, and compared to the embarrassment she felt, indignation was the easier option.

‘Here, you take it,’ he offered, though Hermione shook her head.

_ Deep breaths. _

‘No, it’s fine. I’m sorry. It’s a stupid gift anyway.’

‘Stupid gift, huh?’ Across Draco’s face flashed the meekest semblance of a smirk. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘Well,’ began Hermione, fidgeting with her hands, ‘sometimes a seemingly stupid gift can be just what you need.’

‘Interesting,’ said Draco. ‘Very interesting.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked as if she didn’t know that he knew.

Oh, he  _ definitely  _ knew.

‘Nothing.’ Draco cocked his chin towards the Inflatable Hoops. ‘Thanks. See you around, Granger.’

‘Yeah – you, too.’

With that, he turned on his heels and disappeared among the chattering crowd.

Come Christmas Day, Draco would receive yet another piece of coal – who would have thought – as well as note number two:

_ This hardly counts as a gift, but it might be just what you need.  
Happy Christmas _

**x x x**

_**Boxing Day, 2002** _

Draco didn’t turn up alone to the Ministry function that year, Hermione identifying the witch by his side as Daphne Greengrass’s younger sister Astoria – they looked genuinely happy together. She couldn’t recall ever having seen Draco smile so broadly.

Somehow, Hermione felt a twitch to her stomach, and she chided herself immediately. Why should she feel bothered? She was being ridiculous – she sent him coal, not flowers. Besides, this Cameron bloke she met at Harry and Ginny’s Halloween party was actually kind of cute …

_ A long journey lies ahead of you, _ she had written on this year’s note. Perhaps it was time for her to move on as well.

**x x x**

_**Christmas Eve, 2003** _

‘Is everything okay?’ asked Cameron.

They’d gone out for supper, and Hermione only then realised she was scowling.

‘What? Oh, yeah.’ It was a lie. She couldn’t help but peer over her boyfriend’s shoulder and look at the couple who had just entered the restaurant. For some reason, Draco looked a tad agitated as he and Astoria walked with the hostess to a corner table.

‘Are you sure?’ Cameron’s voice tore her attention back to him.

Hermione affirmed she was, flashing him her best smile.

‘Alright, if you say so … hey, I was wondering’– he put down his fork and knife and reached for his glass of wine –‘what’s with that piece of coal on your desk?’

‘It’s a long story,’ Hermione offered, though Cameron’s eyebrows wandering up made her give in. ‘When I went back to school for my final year, I started sending coal to my former bullies as my way of … well, peaceful payback, so to speak. The piece on my desk is for the one who bullied me the most.’

Cameron chortled into his drink. ‘That’s not weird at all, Hermione – I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s sweet. But why bother? Wouldn’t it be better just to ignore them?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Hermione. ‘Who else is going to show them that they’ve caused harm and encourage them to become a better person? Everyone deserves a second chance.’

‘Pretty much everyone,’ said Cameron, covering her hand with his. ‘Trust me; you’re far too good for this world, you amazing witch.’

Was she? Was it good of her to constantly try and catch a glimpse of another man while having dinner with her boyfriend? Her boyfriend whom she actually cared about?

‘So this one person, have you not forgiven them?’ asked Cameron.

‘I don’t know,’ answered Hermione truthfully. She felt outright uncomfortable now and needed a change of subject. Luckily, there were always books she could discuss with the literature student.

When she scribbled a note for Draco later that night, she hated to acknowledge the constriction in her chest.

_ Who am I to judge?  
In the end, it’s up to you. _

**x x x**

_**Boxing Day, 2004** _

The Ministry’s entrance hall was lavishly decorated, as usual. Every year Draco came to this function (as was expected from a benefactor), and every year, he saw  _ her _ – the last of her messages still ringing in his ears:

_ Have you ever wondered whether I do?  
Because I do. _

He still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Draco scanned the vast room for the witch in question, ultimately spotting her by the buffet.

‘What do you mean, “you do”?’

Draco stood right behind Hermione now – she was in the middle of scooping copious amounts of chocolate mousse into a bowl.

‘Hey, Draco,’ she said, seemingly unfazed and not even looking at him. Draco didn’t fail to notice that her dress was particularly pretty that night.

‘You said, “I do”,’ he probed, never leaving her side when she moved towards the custard. ‘What do you mean by it?’

‘Oh, that.’ Hermione turned around to him at last – her attempt to smile was feeble at best. She looked tired. ‘It means I forgive you.’

‘Oh, okay.’ Draco rubbed his neck sheepishly as Hermione dedicated herself to the buffet once more. ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose.’ She shrugged, topping her dessert with red berry compote.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Draco – he was beginning to feel worried. A strange feeling in his gut that he wouldn’t acknowledge before suddenly burst through, claiming all his attention and directing it towards the witch in front of him.

‘Nothing,’ she said, although she was clearly lying. When she walked away from the buffet, bowl in hand and practically wolfing down her food, he followed her until they reached a vacant bar table some metres away from the other guests.

‘Where’s Astoria?’ she asked in an unnaturally high-pitched voice.

‘Not here,’ replied Draco curtly. ‘We split up.’

Hermione made a sound as if surprised, though Draco could tell she wasn’t. Was she testing the water?

He cleared his throat and said, ‘So where’s … what was his name again?’

Cameron. Cameron Schwartz. Yeah, he knew his name well enough.

‘Not here,’ she echoed torpidly. ‘He’s gone back to Seattle, and he hasn’t answered my letters in over a month.’

_ Now that explains a lot. _

‘Are you okay?’ he enquired.

Hermione shrugged again but remained silent. Instead, she spooned more chocolate mousse into her mouth.

‘Hermione?’ said Draco, realising that he’d just addressed her by her given name for the very first time in his life.

Another spoonful of dessert frozen halfway to her mouth, she suddenly broke down crying. Her face contorted, fat tears falling down her cheeks and into the bowl. Draco would have swallowed his discomfort if his throat hadn’t been so dry.

‘Hey,’ he cooed hoarsely, taking the dish out of her hand and placing it on the bar table. ‘Don’t cry.’

Draco didn’t know what else to say. He just wanted her to stop being sad; it made his heart twinge to see her like that.

‘Hey,’ he iterated, now moving closer and stroking her bare shoulders. Her skin was so smooth … he placed a thumb onto her cheek and wiped away a tear. It was all he could do before she cupped his face and kissed him. She tasted like salt and chocolate and vanilla and cherries. Like everything he’d ever wanted.

Draco pulled her flush against him, deepening the kiss. He didn’t care about potential onlookers. She said she’d forgiven him – that was all he needed to know.

‘Sorry,’ she sniffed after breaking the kiss, much to his chagrin. ‘I’m such a mess.’

‘Yes, you are,’ he chuckled, eliciting the slightest quirk on her oh-so-snoggable lips.

She looked up at him with her makeup smudged and shook her head. ‘No, I mean … I should go. I’m sorry.’

When she scurried away, he felt a piece of his heart follow suit.

**x x x**

_**Christmas Day, 2005** _

Draco waited. And waited. The mantelpiece clock chimed two in the afternoon, yet nothing had arrived – and by nothing, he meant the usual. No coal. No note. Anything.

Why?

Was it because of their kiss? That beautiful, wretched kiss? The kiss that made her blush and avert her gaze every time they ran into each other?

Three o’clock. That was it. He was tired of waiting, and Draco didn’t have a bloody piece of coal in mind. He donned his winter cloak and Apparated to the first place he could think of.

‘Is Hermione here?’ he asked as soon as the door to number twelve, Grimmauld Place swung open.

‘No, she should be at home still,’ said Potter, evidently not in the least bit surprised about Draco’s enquiry.

‘And where exactly would that be?’

‘31 Carkitt Market, but –’

‘Thanks.’

Before he Apparated to Carkitt Market, he could have sworn to hear Potter chunter “Merry Christmas to you, too, Malfoy”.

Minutes later, Draco rapped his knuckles vigorously at the door belonging to “H. Granger”. He didn’t know whether it was anger he felt or anticipation – his heart at least was racing.

When she opened the door, he knew there was no going back.

‘Draco?’

Despite the hour, she was wearing Christmas themed pyjamas, her hair a bushy mess – Draco had never found her any more attractive than in that very moment.

‘Why didn’t you send any?’ he accused, his shaky voice bearing more nervousness than he wished to impart.

‘I told you last year – I forgive you,’ she said softly. ‘I – the coal … it was just to show you …’

Hermione stopped talking then. Instead, she locked eyes with him, and Draco felt like he could spend a lifetime doing just that.

‘Show me what?’ he said huskily. ‘That you were there all along?’

He could see a ripple travel down her throat, his feet carrying him closer to where she stood in her chequered pyjama bottoms. When she lay her palms against his chest, Draco’s heart beat so heavy against his ribcage that he thought it would burst open unless he finally allowed himself what he craved more than anything else in his life.

Her scent mingled with the smell of pine cones wafting from her flat, and Draco buried his hand in her neck, gently nudging her face towards his. The last thing he noticed before losing himself in her touch was the door falling shut behind them.

* * *

‘And then we –’

‘It’s okay, Dad, you don’t have to –’

‘It was the most amazing kiss of my life, to this day,’ added Draco, unfazed by his son’s sticking out his tongue in blatant disgust.

‘Scorp, the day will come that you’ll change your mind about sno –’

‘Draco?’ Hermione called from upstairs, interrupting him mid-sentence. ‘Are you keeping an eye on the oven?’

‘My mince pies!’ cried Scorpius, all “yuck” and “ugh” forgotten. He hastily scrambled to his feet and dashed towards the kitchen, almost slipping and falling in the process. Draco got up with much less youthful vigour and followed his son.

‘So?’ he asked. ‘Do you think they’re done?’

Scorpius tilted his head, staring at the oven door. ‘Hmm … maybe we should ask Mum?’

‘Over here,’ announced Hermione, though she was huffing and puffing. A look downwards explained why – their little daughter was clinging to one of her legs while his wife practically dragged her across the tiles.

‘Faster, Mummy!’ cried Lyra excitedly, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

‘Please take her,’ she pleaded, mouthing a silent “Thank you” after Draco had squatted down to pick her up.

‘Mum, the pies,’ said Scorpius, impatiently tugging at her jumper. Hermione raised her eyebrows at Draco and flashed him a mischievous smirk before giving in to their son’s pleading that she assess the baked goods.

As soon as the mince pies were out of the oven and placed under Scorpius’s watchful care (lest someone nick one prematurely), Hermione took a few steps back to where Draco stood. He snaked the arm that wasn't holding Lyra around his wife's shoulders and planted a soft kiss upon her temples.

‘This year’s piece was smaller than last year’s,’ Draco murmured into her ear.

‘Well, maybe you weren’t naughty enough,’ she whispered back, although suspiciously clearing her throat shortly after. ‘How are the mince pies, sweetheart?’ Hermione addressed Scorpius, who was in the middle of blowing onto one of the treats and taking a delicate bite. ‘Are they alright?’

He nodded gleefully, his eyes growing wide with relish. Apparently, they were more than alright.

Everything was.

**x x x**

_**The End** _


End file.
